bring your heart back (to my island)
by roane
Summary: No matter how long he stays away, there's one attachment Luke can't rid himself of. (One-sided Luke/Leia, pining.)
No matter how Luke has shielded himself from the galaxy outside of Ahch-To, some things still get past.

Death is a universal reality, and even here, as isolated as he is, cries of loss and pain are too much. He's erected barriers around his consciousness to filter most of it out. It takes minimal effort to do that now, decades away from the boy whose meditations could be broken by a stray noise. He can hold his mind steady and calm within himself even in the middle of intense combat—can, and _has_.

Then one afternoon his meditation isn't just broken, but shattered to a million pieces by an outcry that vanishes as fast as it comes. _As if millions of voices cried out and were silenced_. Luke doesn't know what system it was, but he knows what happened, and he has a good idea by whom.

There is nothing he can do.

Marooning himself here was a deliberate choice, a final last-ditch effort to counteract a lifetime of impulsive acts. Yoda had warned him right at the start. Most of the time, Luke's instincts are good enough that his impulses are the right ones. Most of the time. But when they're wrong…

Millions of people may have just died because of one of the times they were wrong.

So here and now, with no ship, no communications, Luke cannot act on his impulses. He cannot rush off anywhere to try and fix the things he broke. At first it was agony, but as the years passed, he finally started to learn the patience that Yoda tried to teach.

He no longer feels as if he has save everyone. He no longer wants to save _anyone_ , with three exceptions. Those three exceptions are why he has no ship, no communications with the galaxy beyond.

Luke still dreams of them, of _her_. Fevered dreams that leave him unsettled for days, his chest aching. Dreams of what was, of what might have been. The dreams are beyond his control, he knows that, but he also knows that what they reveal means he still needs to stay far away.

He doesn't regret the decision, until the day he does.

He has a vision of snow, a feeling of cold as deep as Hoth's reaching into his bones. A surge of hope, of a love like he hasn't felt in years and then—pain. The kind of pain that echoes and amplifies between the three hearts he loves best, until it's loud enough and strong enough to stab through all the barriers until it reaches his own heart.

Luke stumbles midstep, lands badly on his hands and knees. _No, not that,_ please _not that_. But he knows. He felt the dying spark of overwhelming love and forgiveness—unfathomable forgiveness, forgiveness even he can barely imagine—and knows this is no vision of the future, but a vision of the _now_. It is already too late.

Leia's pain is a tangible thing that hits him in waves—he can almost _see_ it. Does she know that she's broadcasting so hard? Is it a call for help?

All he can do is hold himself still, absorb the pain that comes his way. He wants—so badly—to send anything back, some small form of comfort. But he doesn't. There is nothing she wants from him. He closes his eyes and imagines the last time he saw her. Then she'd watched him with her warm dark eyes turned cold and angry; he'd barely been able to look at her as they'd said goodbye.

It hurts, and there is too much hurt in the galaxy right now. Instead, he remembers the last time he held her in his arms. Before everything went to hell. The memory is so real he can smell the scent of her hair pressed against his cheek. There was a time he'd lived for moments like that, little stolen moments that meant everything to him, including everything he could never have.

They never spoke of it after Endor. Even Han, who never missed an opportunity to tease either of them about anything, stayed quiet on the subject. They pretended that no misunderstandings, that no kisses, had ever happened. Sometimes he'd catch Leia looking at him with a curious sadness, but that was all.

It was better that way. If, as the years passed, people wondered why Luke Skywalker never married, well, it was easy enough to point to the old Jedi code. Easy to make a virtue out of vice. Easy to pretend that his heart was still his to give, and just he chose not to.

A little piece of his soul withered every time someone praised his dedication.

He thinks Ben knew. As a child Ben was eerily perceptive. One afternoon, during one of the last times Luke had visited their home, as the two of them sat side by side in the study, Ben had asked, "Do you hate my dad?"

"No!" Luke had laughed, because the idea was so inconceivable. Hating Han Solo for the situation made as much sense as hating the wind on Ahch-To for a sandstorm on Tatooine. "No, Ben. Han's my best friend, my brother."

"He makes you sad, though."

"No he doesn't."

"My mom, then."

"Neither of them makes me sad." He'd hugged the boy, who was often sad himself, and Luke didn't know how to fix it. "You're my family, all of you. That makes me happy."

Luke had always tried not to make a habit of lying to children, but he'd discovered that it was sometimes necessary. The boy's namesake would have appreciated the irony.

Ben had let it drop, but Luke knew he wasn't satisfied with the answer.

Luke still wonders what he could have said differently, that day or any other, to keep Ben firm in the light. He wonders if it's too late to save him, and if he even would, given the chance.

Deep down, in the small dim recesses of his heart, he's glad it's not a choice he has to make. He's glad to be marooned here.

He feels it when the conduit carrying Leia's agony over her husband and son snaps closed, and for a horrified moment, fears the worst—but no, she's done what she has always done. Mourned briefly, then moved on. Anything else will have to wait. That core strength in her is part of what he's always loved.

Luke dreams of Han that night. They're younger, standing in some vague dreamscape filled with roaring winds. Han has him by the shoulders and is shouting to be heard over the wind. "The princess. You have to take care of her. You hear me?"

Luke wants to argue that the princess hasn't been a princess in years, and that she never needed him to take care of her.

"Promise me!" Han's eyes are older than Luke remembers, and there's something there Luke hasn't seen before. A knowing. A forgiveness.

Before he can promise, Han is gone, and Luke is awake.

Not every dream he has comes from the Force. It's not always easy to tell the difference between them, but this one… he can feel the weight of it. _You have to take care of her_.

He sits up and rubs his face with the one hand remaining to him.

Events are in motion again, after a long period of slowly growing tension. He wasn't able to stop it then, and he can't stop it now. Someone has the map, or at least part of it. It's only a matter of time before someone uses it.

He'd known he wouldn't be able to hide forever. He'd known, the day he'd set foot on this island, that he'd have to face Leia again, deal with what he'd done, with all the ways he'd failed her.

When Artoo wakes from a long sleep, Luke knows it. The surge of hope that follows from dozens of people makes him close his eyes and bow his head. They don't understand. They couldn't.

For the first time in years, he reaches out to Leia, a neutral greeting, like a wave from across a crowded room that she can pretend she didn't see.

He doesn't expect a response.

Which is why, when the response comes almost immediately, he's knocked back on his heels.

Luke can see her as she is now, small and potent and yelling at him. Does she see him too, or just sense him? Whenever he sees her through the Force, his mind turns her into a small holographic image, it always has. It's unfair that she's still so beautiful. It's unfair that he still feels this way.

There are no words—they've never communicated with words this way—just feelings. Relief. Joy. Pure rage. Love. She doesn't need words to say _come home_.

It's not what he expected, not at all. She must sense his confusion, and returns it with exasperation. He's never understood her, she tells him, and sometimes he is impossibly _dim_.

For the first time in years, Luke Skywalker laughs.

 _I'm sending someone. Come home._

He is not what the galaxy needs, he is the last thing the galaxy needs. But they'll come anyway. And he'll go with them. For her.


End file.
